


It's All In The Details

by psychicdreams



Series: Details [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Marriage, Romance, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft's brother asks a huge favor. Well, perhaps not <i>asked</i>, so much as blackmailed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU-ish. Set after Sherlock returns; John did get engaged to Mary, but broke it off when Sherlock returned and confessed his feelings. This is also pure crack/fluff for me.)

Mycroft was leaning forward, handing a printed sheet of paper to the DI when it happened. They had been in a meeting for forty-five minutes and Mycroft had had to personally apologize for having to take a case from Lestrade, who had resented it fiercely. He appreciated the man very much for what he did in his job and most importantly for his little brother, and he’d felt it only prudent to go in person rather than call or have someone else do it.

The door was thrown open, the knob slamming against the wall and startling the two occupants. Sherlock strode in, his cape flaring and behind him, John was there looking as red as a cherry. Mycroft frowned a bit; he had known that they’d been dating for a month, not that he had been told. The two had been keeping it quiet as things settled down with Sherlock’s reappearance.

“Sherlock, bit busy here,” Lestrade growled. “If you changed your mind about that case you turned down—”

“Hardly. Boring. The sister did it in a fit of jealousy.” Sherlock turned instead to Mycroft and he felt a cold slip of unease down his throat. His brother simply did not come find him for something unless it was dire and it usually meant bad news for him. “Mycroft.”

“Sherlock. As you can see, I am also a bit busy.”

“I’ll make it quick then. John and I are getting married. You’re arranging it.”

The paper fluttered from his outstretched hand, the umbrella in his other hitting the floor as his fingers grew lax in shock. He heard Lestrade’s shocked ‘What’ but it paled in comparison to himself. He wasn’t even sure _what_ he felt. Congratulations that he was getting married, all very well, and he supposed he had no choice to actually _attend_ , but _plan it_?! Didn’t he have enough work to do?!

“Sherlock—”

“You will also be my…best man.” The term almost sounded like insult out of Sherlock, who turned to Lestrade. “I had originally chosen you, as John informed me I _had_ to have a best man, but then I realized just how wonderfully hilarious it would be to have Mycroft forced to make a speech that is _positive_ about me.”

There was no other word for it: evil. Sherlock was _evil_. The silence in the room was deafening and Mycroft probably would have fallen to the floor if he’d been standing. Slowly the world began spinning again and he shifted, his back hitting the chair with a thump. His eyes couldn’t move from his brother, who seemed smugger and smugger by the moment. The only thing that broke his attention was the feeling of fingers on his pulse. He looked to the side at John, who had apparently been concerned enough to check to make sure his heart hadn’t stopped. Even Lestrade had come around his desk to peer at him.

“Mycroft? You okay, mate?” the detective asked cautiously.

It took a minute to find his voice. “I’m…perfectly…fine, Inspector.” He swallowed a bit and drew in the tattered remains of his dignity and control. “While I do sincerely congratulate you both on your upcoming nuptials, I must respectfully decline from planning the wedding. I would also like to recommend you to follow up on your original choice as the Inspector for your ‘best man’.”

Sherlock grinned in that way that Mycroft hated because he knew he was going to play on his emotions for his little brother and there was nothing he could do to stop whatever he was about to say. “Then we won’t be married. I won’t have anyone other than you planning the wedding and making a speech. Really, being married to John would have made me so happy too…”

 _Damn him. Damn him to **hell**. _ The last line clinched it and while Mycroft _knew_ that Sherlock was manipulating him, those damn feelings he’d had ever since Sherlock had been born, that kept him coming back and protecting his brother no matter the abuse thrown at him from said brother, rallied against his mind. Weakly, with the hand that was not currently being held in John’s, he rested his forehead against his fingers, covering his eyes as he let out a soft breath. He had been truly outmaneuvered and it was not a feeling that Mycroft was familiar with or liked.

“Very well, Sherlock.”

That delighted, if slightly perverse, grin flashed over his brother’s face, but Mycroft only glared in return. “September 30th.”

“What about it?” Lestrade asked, glancing between the two.

“That’s the date they’ve chosen for the wedding,” he muttered. That meant he had four months to move heaven and earth to get everything taken care of. So he had to manage the country, corral his little brother, _and_ plan a wedding. When was he supposed to even have time to breathe, much less sleep or eat?

“I tried to talk him out of it,” John said helplessly, shrugging. “I suggested a wedding planner when he said he didn’t want to do it himself or let me do it, but he refused. He said the only person he would accept doing it if he was going to get married at all was you. He said you’d know exactly what he wanted and wouldn’t have to ask any stupid questions.”

Wonderful.

-0-

Mycroft might not have been enthused about doing it, but he was going to do it right no matter what. He stalked into his office the next morning, gesturing for Anthea to follow him. “Close the door.”

She did so with a curious look on her face. “Is something the matter, sir?”

“My little brother is getting married and I have been informed by him yesterday afternoon that I am to be his ‘best man’ and plan his ceremony. Given this, there will have to be adjustments in the schedule amid every day to attend to matters.”

“Sir…there’s very little time to work in. Your schedule leaves you only time to sleep and eat.”

“Then there will be no sleeping or eating,” he said frankly. “Now what I need is a list of possible venues for a small wedding ceremony and reception for September 30th. There is no restriction on money,” That was something he had never once considered, other than using his own money because it was Sherlock, “and I shall need also choices on wedding rings to present to Sherlock.” That was the only thing he was going to insist that his brother look at; Sherlock had completely washed his hands of the process, but not this. This would be quite a personal thing and he refused to let him ignore this point. “Find the best caterer, florist, and photographer and videographer. I wish to see three candidates for each. There will be a small guest list.” Mycroft handed the stunned woman the list of people that John had written up and there were under thirty. That was a simple blessing.

For a brief minute he considered just leaving it at that, but there was still more. “Book their honeymoon to either Paris or Greece, whichever has more draw to it in the first week of October. It should be for two weeks, but leave their itinerary up to them. Merely set up the location and the place they will be staying. As I am best man, I will not be officiating so we must find someone that passes the security checks. Both Sherlock and John will naturally be having a separate ‘stag’ night and make sure that Sherlock is set to stay at my home after. I have been informed it is bad luck to see each other before the wedding on that day.” Inconveniencing Sherlock was the _least_ he could do for all this trouble. “Inform Sherlock and John that they _will_ be writing their own vows. All of this must be completed in four months.” Planning a wedding that should have been at least nine months to sixteen months of time into four…inwardly he shivered at the work.

“Anything else, sir?”

Bless Anthea, she had gotten all that and he wouldn’t have to go through it again. “Find a store with the highest quality wedding cakes,” he said with a nod. “I shall have to find some time in the next month to choose a cake.” Briefly he considered asking her about the best man speech, but decided that he would do that on his own. It was…only proper. Sherlock would only be married once and if he was going to make this day for his little brother, he would make it _perfect._

“Sir…”

He looked up from his desk, drawn out of his contemplation on murdering his brother and how to dispose of the body. “Yes?”

She seemed to hesitate a bit before saying, “Never mind, sir. You have the French delegate waiting for you.”

“Send them in.”

-0-

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, noting that it was almost seven and he was exhausted. In between meetings, he’d been perusing some of the magazines that Anthea had brought in to ‘give him ideas’, but the truth was, he didn’t know if he cared. He already had something in mind, the majority of the decorations going to be white and purple, which happened to be Sherlock’s favorite color…not that he’d ever admit that. Besides, Sherlock looked his best with something purple. Pastel in color, not something bright and garish.

Really, why were they even going through with a wedding? The thought had been nagging at him for some time. Sherlock didn’t care, weddings didn’t make a difference to him. They were just places people gathered and he’d already made it clear he would spend the rest of his life with John. Mycroft was of the same opinion: so long as one was committed to the person in emotions, there was no real reason to do anything of the sort, except sign some legal paperwork. Which meant that Sherlock was doing it for John; did John really care? Was Sherlock just assuming that this was something John wanted or did the doctor himself actually want a wedding?

He blinked as his mobile began to ring and he looked down at it, relaxing at seeing the words _D.I. Lestrade_. Bone tired, he slowly picked up the phone and said, “Mycroft Holmes.”

“My—Mr. Holmes, it’s Greg. Greg Lestrade?”

“You may call me Mycroft at this point. Good evening, Inspector. Is there something you needed?” _Please, please say no_ …

“Then you can call me Greg.” There was a pause on the other end and he heard a light noise, like keys fumbling and the sound of a car door opening. So he was going home, was he? Mycroft envied him. Even if he managed to make it to his house before midnight, he would still have work with him, both part of his job and for the wedding. “I was thinking…”

“About?”

“Well…planning a wedding is a big thing and you’ve never been married before, right? Neither has Sherlock or John.”

“You are correct.”

“I…have. I mean, it was fifteen years ago and my marriage rather crashed and burned two years ago, but I thought I’d…offer.”

He must really be tired if he wasn’t sure what the detective was saying, “Offer what?”

“Expertise. Thoughts. Help. Whatever you need. It never hurts to have a second opinion and you’re going to be overwhelmed, not just with the wedding, but your work. So…if you want to _delegate_ a bit…”

Could he do so with Lestrade? Did he trust him enough? Sherlock had specifically required him to do it, because he knew what Sherlock wanted. So long as he gave specific instructions… “If you insist, but when I give you instructions, you must do them exactly as I have said. If you have questions, call me immediately.”

“No problem.” There was another moment of silence and Mycroft resisted the urge to fall asleep. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Why did Sherlock insist that you plan the wedding?”

His eyes closed and he leaned his head back against the headrest of the chair. “In his own twisted way, it’s because he trusts me. I know what he wants in a wedding and would not have to ask his opinion on it, therefore reducing someone ‘bothering him’ as a wedding planner would.”

“Really?” Lestrade’s voice was highly skeptical. “I’m sorry, but you guys argue about _everything_. Wouldn’t he argue with every single choice you made?”

He smiled softly as he replied, “Sherlock is quite contrary, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Rubbing his eyes, he straightened a bit in his seat. “While we are speaking, am I assured that you will be attending?”

“I’m invited?”

“Of course,” he said. “The thought has never crossed my mind that you would not be the first on the guest list.”

He could almost hear the blush. “O-Oh. W-Well, of course then. Do you…need any help with the best man speech?”

Part of him wanted to scream yes, but he took a deep breath and said, “I should agree, but this is something that I…want to do myself.”

“All right. Um…so…what’s my first assignment?”

Mycroft chuckled. “To go home and sleep, Inspector. There will be time in the morning to do something.”

“Only if you do.”

The words surprised him. “I’m afraid that I can’t. There is still much that has to be done today.”

“With your work or the wedding?”

“Both.”

“Oh. Well…I guess it can’t be helped then, but seriously…call me if you need anything. Even just to talk.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, Inspector. Now I suggest you go home. Goodnight.”

“Night, Mycroft. And please, it’s Greg.”

“…Gregory.”

He ended the call with a sigh, feeling a little better at least that he was not entirely alone.

-0-

The car rolled to a stop. Three weeks into planning the wedding and Mycroft found Gregory Lestrade to be absolutely _invaluable_. His experience had had him avoiding pitfalls that he wouldn’t have considered, letting him know the actual way something worked. He kept in contact with the professionals he needed to, kept them appraised, and he had trusted the detective’s judgment when he picked a small venue after being shown the three that his PA had left Mycroft.

This was the time he was almost dreading, though. Mycroft slid from the backseat, spotting Lestrade waiting for him outside the door of the cake store. He loved such desserts a little too much and if nothing else, the man was there for moral support even if he didn’t know it. Umbrella in hand, he stepped forward. “Gregory. I’m pleased you could find the time to join me.”

“No problem. Had to learn how to do a bit of delegating myself the last few weeks to help, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I mean, Sherlock and John are only getting married once, you know? Did you know that John asked me to be _his_ best man? So I guess we’re the pair.” Seeing his confusion, Greg added, “You know, like best man and maid of honor?”

The news that the two were getting married had spread like wildfire on the internet and the papers. That was not something Mycroft had been expecting and had been on the receiving end of many an annoyed call from Sherlock that the only people that had called him were journalists with questions instead of cases. There was nothing he could do about it other than keep the venue a secret as much as possible. If he’d had to threaten the photographer, caterer, and florist to keep their mouths shut, then so be it.

“Ahh, and of that, I am sincerely glad.”

The detective eyed him a bit. “You look exhausted, Mycroft. When was the last time you slept?”

“I had four hours of uninterrupted sleep last night, thank you.” Without even thinking about it, he held the door open for Lestrade, who walked in reluctantly, clearly hearing the ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ in his tone.

As he stepped in, he paused at the question, “So bride or groom’s cake, or both?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure what he was asking. “Excuse me?”

“Well, traditional weddings have both. Bride’s cake, then groom’s; the first for the wedding and then the groom’s for the reception.” He hadn’t been aware of that; why hadn’t Anthea told him? Surely she had researched the information behind the cake while he was in a meeting? “Given that John is not necessarily a _bride_ , do you want to even do a wedding cake?”

They would be lucky if Sherlock even ate one slice, so it didn’t make sense to have two cakes. Secondly, as he looked around the building at examples of styles, often three-tiered monstrosities in design, he didn’t think John would appreciate it. He wanted to ask what Greg thought was best, but at the same time, he found it hard to admit that he didn’t know.

As if sensing that, the detective continued, “Groom’s cakes aren’t like bride’s cakes. You see the bride’s cakes, but groom’s can be any shape or color or type. I had a mate that had his groom cake in the shape of a football. Mine, when I married Louise, was something the guys at the Yard all chipped in for: it was shaped like my badge.”

His response was interrupted by a staff member, who smiled brightly. “Can I help you?”

He stepped forward toward the counter, relieved that Lestrade was right next to him the whole time. “I would like information on designs for a cake.”

She pulled out a binder from behind the counter. “Is your wedding near?”

He frowned a little at her implication, but Greg beat him to it. “Oh, it’s not our wedding! It’s his brother’s. He’s planning it.”

“Oh! I thought… Well you made such a cute couple…”

Greg blushed and even Mycroft shifted. He and the Inspector? He glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. There was no denying that the man was attractive, now that it had been pointed out to him, and they were both single, but there just wasn’t enough time to even contemplate it. His imagination helpfully tried to suggest what the man might look like relaxed in his home, perhaps even without clothes, and he quickly shook it off.

“Do you have a baker in mind?”

“I will be doing it,” he said absently, flipping through the laminated pages.

“Are you a baker?”

“No.”

“Then I would highly suggest you hire a professional—”

He flashed his eyes up in annoyance, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say. Did she assume that he couldn’t do it? He might not have been a professional, but he could make it and it was something he wanted to do.

“Mycroft, I know you’d rather do everything with your own hands for Sherlock, but baking a wedding cake is not the same thing as baking a regular cake at home, even from scratch,” Greg suggested gently. “Besides, you’ve got so much to do, do you honestly have the _time_ to for it?”

His fingers tightened on his umbrella, but he couldn’t deny the truth of the inspector’s words. It was unlikely that he had the ability to do an actual wedding cake, but even if he did, he didn’t have the equipment a bakery did or the time to do it. He sighed as he came to the end of the book, not seeing anything he liked. “…You’re right of course, Gregory.”

“Can I get that on tape?”

He half-glared at the tease, but a smile tugged at his lips. The man gestured to him a little away from the woman and said, “Look, I’d _suggest_ , which you’re free to ignore, just do one cake and leave it as a groom’s cake as the wedding cake itself. We don’t want some three-tiered and flowery cake for either of them. Do you think Sherlock would want that?”

“No.”

“So just find a design, a shape you like that suits both of them, get a really good baker, and have him do it. Hell, I’d suggest making it out of cheesecake or something. It’s different and at the same time, unlikely to ‘offend sensibilities’.”

Mycroft nodded and led the way out of the store. “I do know an excellent French baker.”

“He in town?”

“No, he is in France.”

Greg stared at him. “Are you talking about importing a cake?”

“No, I intend to import him a few weeks before the wedding and have him do it here.” He smiled slightly in amusement. “That is far easier.”

He enjoyed the laugh more than he probably should. “So do you have a design in mind?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps a violin? No…” As a sudden inspiration hit him, he held up his finger to the detective to ask him to wait, and pulled out his notepad. “Do you have a pen?”

The man fumbled in his pockets before pulling one out and Mycroft sketched a bit before he was satisfied, holding it out for the detective’s perusal. Silvery eyebrows rose to his hairline and a grin formed over his features so wide it must hurt. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’re going to have it made in the shape of Sherlock’s laptop, with a page of John’s blog showing the first entry he ever wrote about their first case together, ‘A Study in Pink’ and leaning on one edge is Sherlock’s famed skull.”

“Yes. Did that not come across?”

“Oh, hell it did, I just didn’t know if I was in the twilight zone. It’s so hilariously them. Can your baker do it?”

“Of course. Would you assume he wouldn’t if I chose him?”

“…Not at all, Mycroft.”

-0-

As the wedding grew closer, Mycroft grew more and more ill-at-ease. Thanks to Gregory, the preparations were proceeding smoothly, John and Sherlock had chosen their rings, and while this was taking quite a bit of money from his accounts, he was happy…except with one thing.

He lifted his head at the sound of his doorbell and he left his scotch to answer it. He didn’t even need to look because he knew who it was. Greg smiled at him and he stepped aside without a word to let him in. It was nine in the evening, the man had had a long day, but Mycroft had asked for him to come over anyway and he felt guilty about it. In the past four months, planning the wedding had made them closer than ever and sometimes they’d collapse in his home, Greg falling asleep on his couch. Mycroft had always carried him to a guest room.

“Something up, Mycroft? You said everything was going well,” the Inspector commented as he slid off his jacket and hung it up next to the door.

“Everything but one item.”

“…The speech?”

Mycroft, jaw clenched shut, nodded. “I cannot seem to get it right.”

“Want to let me read it?”

He showed him to his living room where he’d been sitting, a pad of paper next to him, and gestured to the fire. Inside it were dozens of pieces of paper that he’d thrown away when he’d found it wanting. “I’m afraid I have nothing to let you read.” He turned, pouring them both some whiskey.

The man dropped onto the sofa as he took the glass. “You want me to help?”

Mycroft sat in his chair again, tapping his pen against the pad on the table next to him. “No…but your presence soothes me and might help me to write something.”

“…It does?”

He looked over at the surprised man’s face. “Sherlock has always said that John was his conductor of light; in this case, I suppose, you are mine in a sense. You…relax me and when that happens, often things come a little bit easier, as of late.”

He watched a flush come over Greg’s cheeks, but the smile was pleased. “Well, then I’ll just lay here then, shall I?”

“If you wish.”

Silence filled the room, but it wasn’t oppressive or upsetting. It was soothing. Yet he still found no words coming to him. How did one describe Sherlock? How did one describe his relationship with his brother? How could simple words convey all his concern, worry, and happiness for that ball of energy that had invaded his life when he was seven years old? What words could he use to describe how _proud_ he was of the man that had managed to make something good out of his life when he had been convinced that the drugs would rule it entirely?

Fingers touched his shoulders and he blinked when he realized they were massaging him. “Come on, find a spot to lay down and I’ll work out this tension. Get a long night’s sleep. You have at least one whole day more before the wedding and you took tomorrow off, right? Well besides the upcoming stag night.”

“…Yes. I shouldn’t have—”

“Yes, you should have. Now come on, up, let’s head to your room.” aHe raised an eyebrow at Greg’s manhandling him out of the chair. “Where’s your room?”

Sighing, though not entirely displeased, he led the way up the stairs and into his darkened bedroom. The predominant color was a soft blue hue, with a king size bed, silken sheets, and several dressers and nightstands. A laptop sat on a nightstand next to the bed, and an almost closed door led the way into his bathroom. The evening was cool enough that he had opened the window and a quiet breeze ruffled the mostly open curtains.

“…I think the size of this bedroom is the size of my entire apartment,” Greg commented, but continued to nudge Mycroft to the bed. He sat on the edge and watched in amusement as the detective removed his shoes and socks. “Off with the rest.” At his raised eyebrow again, the detective blushed. “I meant…” He gestured to the vest and his pocketwatch among others.

He removed them silently and pulled off his tie as the last part of the ensemble to go, loosening the top two buttons of his shirt. Following directions for once, he settled on his stomach and watched out of the corner of his eye as Greg shucked off his own shoes and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “Tell me if I make you uncomfortable,” he warned and Mycroft didn’t realize why until he felt the man straddle his waist.

He stiffened, but hands were quick to press down on his back right at the small of his spine. He gasped in surprise, nimble fingers finding their first knot of tension and attempting to work it out. “I’m not an expert or anything,” Greg said conversationally, “but one of my sister’s does this for a living, you know for medical therapy? She gives me one often enough.”

A soft sigh escaped him as it felt as if the tension just rippled away little by little. “I believe you have missed your calling, Inspector,” he murmured.

“Hardly! You mind if I get rid of the belt? It’s in my way. I never realized clothes caused so many problems.” There seemed to be a moment’s hesitation. “I won’t actually remove the shirt, but can I get my hands underneath it? Is that all right?”

Mycroft considered it, particularly in light of his growing attraction and attachment to the Inspector, but he was feeling pleasantly content at the moment. “Yes, you may.”

The man’s fingers slipped down beneath him as he lifted just a little to undo the belt and lightly opened his pants. For a moment he was concerned, but all Greg did was yank his shirt out of his trousers before they went back to his back. He relaxed back down, enjoying the callused fingers sliding against his bare back underneath the shirt.

“Could make a man feel envious, you know.”

The words breaking the comfortable quiet drew Mycroft’s attention from where he was fighting the urge to doze off to sleep. “What?”

“Well, look at this place. Look at your clothes. It’s not so much the money, but the quality. The suits are top-notch, the house is great, and then there’s you.”

He felt his heart begin to thud. “What about me?”

“You’re damn near perfect. Tall, lanky, and successful, and it’s amazing that you’ve managed to juggle your work and planning Sherlock’s wedding. You’re doing everything because you love him and sometimes he’s a little shit about it. You’re just downright amazing at times, even if you’re just as bad as Sherlock in your attitude sometimes, and I don’t think you get told that often enough.” He made to shift onto his arms, but hands pushed him back down. “No, no, no getting up. I’m not even close to being done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“If you say I don’t have to lie, I’ll smack you. I’m not lying. It’s the truth. Everything about you is impressive. You can just walk into a room and without saying a word, take command of it.”

Mycroft shivered as those hands became less kneading and more rubbing, gentling and seeming to explore. He couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped him as the sheer relaxation caused him to harden…well, not only because of that. He blushed a bit as he realized that the words, the fact that it was Greg touching him, were causing him to grow aroused.

The detective’s voice was a low murmur by this time, hands slipping down to Mycroft’s stomach. “It’s actually a bit hot, listening to you give orders.” Fingers eased down and he gasped as he felt the man cup him through his underwear.

“Gregory—”

“Shh, Mycroft. Relax.”

The last thing he did was relax; instead he stiffened further. Was Greg…only touching him because he was tense? The last thing Mycroft wanted was any kind of relief just because he was trying to relax him. He would have refused such actions from a professional masseuse and he certainly wouldn’t take it from Gregory.

“Oh shut up. Now I know how John feels.”

He blinked and looked over his shoulder at the man still straddling his hips. “Excuse me?”

“You know, both you and Sherlock are genius’…but also idiots. You’re thinking that I’m doing this just because I want you to relax, aren’t you?” His silence must have been an affirmative because there was a roll of his eyes and suddenly Greg leaned forward, pressing something hard into the small of his back. “You think I get hard just for anyone? What about me just telling you all the qualities I like about you didn’t you get?”

Mycroft flipped the man over in an instant, throwing him from his back and following, pinning him to the bed. “Gregory…” he growled, leaning down, ready to capture those lips as his own as he froze.

It was like a flash of brilliance and he wondered if this was how Sherlock felt around John. In an instant he rolled off him and grabbed his laptop from the side table. It took one simple tap to open up his word processor and his fingers flew over the keyboard as fast as they could.

Greg sighed heavily next to him, but when Mycroft glanced over, he noted that there was a rueful smile on his lips. “I take it you’ve got it handled then?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, fingers pausing. “Gregory—”

“What are you stopping for? Continue, before you lose your train of thought!”

Despite his misgivings, he did as he was told and focused solely on the laptop. By the time he looked up again, he realized it had turned one in the morning after he’d written and rewritten and perfected his draft. A soft snoring was beside him and he glanced over at the man that had fallen asleep next to him. Gently he ran his fingers through the salt and pepper hair and was it his imagination that Greg nuzzled his head closer toward his fingers? Mycroft debated about moving him to the guest room or sleeping somewhere else himself, but decided that both would entail waking the man up and he didn’t want to. So for now…he’d allow someone for the first time to stay in his bed. This moment of solace was something he soaked up before the rest of the day while he’d have to suffer Sherlock the upcoming night.

-0-

Mycroft, despite rather wishing he could stop it, was smiling throughout the ceremony. While he couldn’t exactly stop all crime that day, he had seen to it that Lestrade and his team had had the day off for the wedding. The wedding itself had had no hitch and he blessed his PA that she had managed to keep everything under wraps and there was not a single journalist in sight.

As they stepped out of the church, the photographer gestured for pictures and Mycroft smiled indulgently at seeing his brother. Honestly, even Sherlock was smiling a bit and John’s grin seemed to be threatening to hurt if he tried to widen it anymore. Of course Sherlock, being dramatic, changed the script at the last minute and as the shutter clicked, he’d tipped John back and kissed him fiercely. Clearly the night apart had caused a lot of tension between the two and he raised an eyebrow at the thought that they might just start making out right there.

John, usually the sensible one, remained so and nudged the consulting detective back. Not that he could actually extricate himself from the arms that wound around him like a particularly clingy octopus. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him as the two best men were called to share a photograph. He rolled his eyes at the silent statement and gestured for Gregory.

He wasn’t sure if one of the grooms had stuck his foot out or if the detective really was that clumsy, but he tripped and stumbled for. Mycroft, seeing that there was nothing to catch himself onto, quickly reached out and wrapped an arm around his waist from behind. As he pulled him back up, their eyes meeting, the shutter clicked and he almost frowned. He stepped back, but Greg grabbed his hand with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. With his other hand he grabbed the gray top hat Mycroft still held and pulled the taller man close, lifting the hat to cover their faces from the shutter as if they were kissing. The shutter clicked as Greg asked, “Having fun?”

“…I suppose,” he said, but his smile said he was. It was probably the first day since they were children that he and Sherlock hadn’t argued _too_ much.

There were plenty more pictures as they moved to the reception and nerves began to form in Mycroft’s stomach. The cake was placed nearby the long table for the wedding party, and John couldn’t seem to stop laughing. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and yet he seemed to be smiling as well. Much to his surprise, his brother even pulled out a seat for John.

As everyone grew settled and conversation flowed, he took a deep breath. His timing was impeccable as he stood up , tapping a fork against his glass of champagne. Everyone’s attention was on him then, and he drew on his ability to look into presidents and dictator’s eyes equally without flinching to handle the nerves. Greg, sitting next to John as he’d sat next to his brother, was watching him and his calm and reassuring presence helped more than he was willing to say.

“I’m told the first thing that one does in these speeches is congratulate everyone for being able to make it, but I feel that that is hardly necessary, since every single person in this room would be more than likely to sacrifice their arm to be here at such a one-time-only occasion.” He’d been very glad for his photographic memory because he had no need of notes…and yet sometimes he rather wished he hadn’t because he could use something to grip and his PA had refused to let him bring his umbrella.

“I was also informed that one usually reads well-wishes from those that couldn’t make it, but we all know that everyone invited is here.” He paused and relaxed a bit as he fell more and more back into his diplomatic role. His chin tilted a little, unconsciously spreading what Greg referred to as his ‘commanding aura’. “There is nothing anyone in this room has spoken about Sherlock that has not already been said by myself first when he was a child.”

There was a chuckle from his mother and father nearby and he felt their happy looks, but he didn’t glance at them. “He is selfish, frustrating, too brilliant for his own good, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I do not have the urge to strangle him.” Sherlock was glaring at him and John poked him to silence when he was about to reply. “If I attempted to count how many times I have had to bail my little brother out of his scrapes, I would quickly lose track. Starting from the time he set the Christmas tree on fire when he was four,” Here his parents laughed, “to the time he was first thrown in jail for trespassing for one of his ‘cases’, I have had no end of headaches because of his behavior.

“However,” he continued before Sherlock could deny that he’d ever needed Mycroft for anything, “I would do it all over in a heartbeat.” He turned his blue eyes to his brother. “Insecure, childish, and so insolent that many would not hesitate to say hates me, but I have never once doubted that no matter what he does, he’s quite worth it. For a long time, there has been much in my life, in my career, that I am unable to express verbally, but if there is one thing that I have never stopped or hidden: my joy in Sherlock. While I have been accused that I have saved the world time and again,” And here there was a smattering of laughter, “my greatest accomplishment is and will always be Sherlock, and he is the source of my greatest of pride.”

Sherlock was the one to look away and it didn’t take his deductive skills to see he’d embarrassed the man. Mycroft turned back to the crowd. “He has carved out his place in the world through his own skill, adhering only to one principle: the truth. I have always known Sherlock to be a brilliant person, if highly arrogant, but soon enough others began to see what I did. Yet nothing gave me greater pleasure than seeing him meet Doctor John Watson. While I grew proud of the cultivation of Sherlock’s mind in his childhood, John continued my work, cultivating his heart, until he is the man I always knew that he could be.”

Before they could clap, Mycroft turned to his brother and saluted with his champagne flute. “Congratulations, dear brother.”

Their eyes met again, Sherlock’s boring into him. John leaned in a little, whispering something in his ear, and the applause paused a bit when the younger Holmes stood up. “Just hug him already,” Greg whispered with a grin in his voice and the two men looked at him almost as if horrified. A ripple of laughter filtered through the guests and Mycroft held out his other hand in the closest approximation of a hug they were really capable of.

Sherlock took it and there was a tight squeeze around his fingers. Mycroft glanced down at their hands and then back up, seeing everything that would never come out his mouth. His fingers would feel numb in another minute, but he actually found himself smiling. This was the most obvious display of Sherlock’s affection for him that he had ever seen. He squeezed back in reassurance and after a long moment their hands parted and they both settled in their chairs.

Greg stood up and rubbed his neck. “’Fraid my best man speech isn’t going to be nearly as eloquent as that, but I think when you start to compete against Mycroft Holmes in elegance, you’ve drunk a little too much alcohol.” Mycroft smiled in amusement as the room began to laugh much more heartily. “When I’d first met John, I’d been dealing with both Holmes’ for about five years, so let that be clear that I knew what Sherlock was like _before_ him. I’ll go on record to say at the time, I agreed with Mycroft about his childish behavior and not thinking he’d ever grow up.

“I guess Mycroft and I had grown into a give and take with Sherlock, kind of a limbo, and then in walks John and it was like someone tossed a bomb. My impression when I first met John was a mild-mannered, quiet doctor and war hero,” Here there was a snort from John, “that wanted to just relax. Nothing out of the ordinary…and then I’d begun to feel a sense of dread.”

He laughed at John’s rueful grin. “Sorry, mate, but it’s true. I’d find my jaw dropping that instead of calming Sherlock down, I’d find him running his arse off right _after_ Sherlock. Proper Doctor Watson giggling right along with Sherlock at crime scenes! I knew then that my headaches wouldn’t stop, they’d only get bigger, but you know, I find myself grinning along with it anyway. John’s a good mate and a great friend. If you need help, there’s no one better to ask. You want facts, you ask Sherlock; you want someone to understand, it’s John.”

Greg grinned down the rest of the table. “So here’s to more headaches and yelling and the future of watching Sherlock and John solving cases until they’re old and gray and can’t drive me round the bend anymore!”

There was more laughter and clapping, and John stood up, hugging the detective. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Mycroft chuckled at his almost-pout. As the reception proceeded, finally it was drawing to a close and time for the dancing. Mycroft signaled for silence and went to the corner of the room with a piano, sitting down and hoping that his practice didn’t fail him. Until three months ago, he hadn’t played the piano in twenty years and he’d been horrified at how terrible he’d sounded.

The piece he’d created seemed to be a success and he blessed that he’d spent every night, no matter how late, practicing even a little. As he stood up, bowing a little graciously, he stepped off the slightly raised stage. John and even Sherlock were clapping before the band that he’d hired, John’s favorite, began to play.

Sherlock, seeming to be the moment he was waiting for, grabbed John’s hands and began to dance. His new husband’s eyes widened, clearly not having expected his partner to be graceful or as perfect at dancing as he was, but there was a delighted smile on his face. Had he expected to have to coerce Sherlock into dancing with him? Mycroft smiled indulgently and made to step over to the nearby bar, when an arm slung around his waist.

“Where you goin’?”

“Over to the bar,” he answered, raising an eyebrow at the detective that accosted him.

“Nope. You’re dancing with me. It’s tradition. You know, chosen of the bride and groom, in this case two best men, dancing together.” Those brown eyes softened a little, almost pleading. “Please?”

As if he could say no to Gregory after all this time… With a heavy sigh, he smiled a bit and nodded. “Oh very well.” He could practically feel the staring of his parents, their grins at his and Sherlock’s back and this was going to be really difficult to explain away.

“So…”

He raised his eyebrow in a silent ‘So what’? as he wrapped an arm around his partner as they danced.

“There’s also another tradition about the groom and groom’s chosen ones.”

“Another?”

Greg’s arms slid around his waist and he seemed to step closer than strictly necessary. “Yeah, usually end up in a bed with hot, wild sex. Interested?”

He thought back to the last night the detective had spent at his house. Before he’d had his inspiration, he’d been more than willing to press the man flat on his back and have him, but his passions had cooled some since then. Was it truly a wise idea? Did they really know what they were getting into?

“Give us a chance, Mycroft. We can have a night of uncomplicated sex and leave it at that…or we can have a night of complicated sex that leads to dates and possibly something more. Personally, I’m hoping a bit for the latter.”

“I’m already too attached to you, Gregory. To date me would only invite that more,” he murmured, unable to keep the words stern. “Are you prepared to be my ‘John’? It isn’t easy being the focus of a Holmes’ affections.”

“Yeah, I am. Now would you finally just up and kiss me? I’ve been waiting for months!”

Mycroft smiled slowly, paused their dancing, and lifted the man’s chin up just so before their lips met. It was like lightning going through him, pushing him to deepen it, and perhaps planning a wedding had some unexpected benefits, he thought as he held the man close.

He would never do it again, though. Ever.

-End-


	2. Stag Night

“I don’t see why I can’t just go back to my apartment after, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered as Mycroft threw his jacket off onto a chair and rolled up his sleeves.

“Because I have been informed it’s traditional not to see the other party before the actual ceremony the night before.”

“Tradition! Who cares about that?!”

“John does.”

That silenced his brother for a few minutes as he grabbed his mobile just in case and ushered the man out the door. Work had been long and tedious, but not nearly over when he’d left at six and dropped by Baker’s Street to pick up his brother. It had been agreed by both he and Greg that he would take his brother out and John would go out with the detective. In some ways, it would be easier to be with John, but like everything else, Mycroft always stuck with his brother. Besides, who knew what he could get up to without him around?

He gestured for Sherlock to get into the sleek black car first and with some grumbling, the slim man did. Honestly, Mycroft didn’t really know what one _did_ on a stag night. He’d asked one of his security men a few weeks back and had been told that his stag night had been going out to a strip bar. Not something that either men was interested in and would possibly cause all manner of problems later.

So he settled on the idea that had been presented by Greg: going out to a bar and drinking. For once, Mycroft didn’t really plan beyond that; it was entirely possible that this stag night wouldn’t last long if Sherlock decided to just leave, and he wouldn’t put it past him. In some ways, Mycroft was almost nervous. This would be the longest they’d spend in each other’s company for years and no one would be a mediator this time besides alcohol…which could end very badly.

The driver slid to a stop outside his chosen pub and he waved the man away, not expecting to need a vehicle for another few hours. Sherlock eyed the place dubiously and then his brother. “Not your usual fair.”

“This isn’t for me,” was all he said by way of explanation and they both strode in. He didn’t bother opening the door for Sherlock because he knew the man would only argue with him over such a simple action that was second nature to him.

“I calculated our intake of alcohol once, a few years ago,” his brother muttered, pulling up his phone.

“Two…beers please,” Mycroft told the bartender, hesitating over the word just a little. In annoyance he snatched the phone from his brother and shoved it into the same pocket as his own. “Just enjoy this, Sherlock.”

“Give it back!”

Instead he grabbed one of the pints and shoved it in the man’s hands. “There, drink that.”

After taking a sip of his own and trying not to make a face at it, Mycroft decided that something stronger and better was needed. “Shots, brother?”

“Of what?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

He glanced at what was displayed along the back wall and smirked just a bit. “Tequila.”

“Daring, Mycroft.”

“Unwilling to chance it, Sherlock?”

The pint was shoved back. “Two shots of Tequila!” he ordered the bartender, who looked at them knowingly, but did as ordered.

Two hours later after countless shots of Tequila and others, as well as drinking beer, Mycroft began to realize he was indeed getting on his way to being heavily sloshed and Sherlock right along with him. The man was expounding something, waving his hands in an animated fashion, but honestly he wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

“I’m telling you, Mycroft! This place is _dull! Boring! **Insufferable!** _ But we can’t leave because _you_ sent the car away! I bet you couldn’t even get away from your security team!”

Stiffening at the implied insult, he said, “Hardly. I’m…far more con…con…better than you,” he finished, having lost the word he was looking for along the way. “I’ll get us a car.” Snatching the mostly full nearby bottle of scotch, he stalked out and ignored the cry from the bartender that he had to bring it back.

Sherlock was right on his heels as they headed for the back door, slipping out quietly and jogging away before the bartender or bouncer could grab them. He peered around the corner at the back of the building, timing their run just as one of his security team turned to look in another direction. Thankfully for them, they were right across from a parking lot and he picked the first car he saw. “Unlock it,” he muttered.

His brother got to work and really, he knew he should probably say something about Sherlock’s tendencies, but right then he was glad of it and if that didn’t tell him how drunk he was, then nothing would. Before he could contemplate it in depth, he took a swig of the scotch right from the bottle and then shoved it at Sherlock when the door was open. “Out of the way.”

Mycroft knelt, reaching in on the driver’s side and pulling away the panel that let him have access to the wires underneath the steering wheel. It took him a few minutes of staring, blinking his eyes, before he’d found the right ones and had hotwired the vehicle, all the while having to listen to the severely annoying commentary from the man behind him. With a smirk, he slid into the car, only to grunt as he was shoved over to the passenger side.

“I was going to drive!” he protested as Sherlock threw the car into gear and Mycroft had to grab the open bottle of scotch before it poured all over the floor.

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“I’m a far better driver.”

“Since when? You haven’t been behind the wheel of a car in years!”

“Neither have you!”

As they sped down the road, breaking the speed limit, Mycroft knew in the back of his mind to be concerned, but he wasn’t. “Just put your seatbelt on,” he groused.

“Still playing Mummy?” Sherlock snapped snidely as they shared the bottle of alcohol and ignored his ringing phone and the repeated texts he could now hear.

He muttered something very uncomplimentary under his breath as he reached over around his brother and yanked the seatbelt over him, ignoring the sputtering arguments and the way the vehicle swerved dangerously. He flopped back against his seat, noting that this was a very small car and not designed for someone of his height. His hair was brushing against the roof of the vehicle.

“Hypocrite!”

“Insolent,” he replied before he managed, fumbling at it since his hands were getting uncoordinated, to get his seatbelt on. They were out of the main streets of London now, getting on back roads, and Sherlock took a sharp curve, taking them to a cross section.

“Go left!”

“No, right!”

“Left!” he spat, reaching over carelessly and yanking on the wheel as if they were two children fighting over a toy.

Unfortunately, it caused the car to continue its fast momentum, tipping a bit…before rolling. It seemed as if the world had suddenly been tossed about and then stopped and Mycroft groaned as he found them upside down. Not more than three rolls and by some miracle they were all right.

Sherlock moaned. “The scotch… You broke it!”

“You were the one that wouldn’t listen,” he argued, releasing his seatbelt as the two crawled out of the car that wasn’t in too bad a shape, all things considered.

“You always break things!”

“You have that the wrong way round,” Mycroft snapped, rubbing his slightly aching head. He glanced around with bleary eyes, the dark making it hard to see. They were probably nearing midnight by now. “Get some more.”

“Where?!”

“There.” He pointed at a bar and the two half-jogged, half-wobbled to it and threw open the doors. It was as hole in the wall bar with a pool table and their abrupt entrance, made more dramatic by Sherlock, caused heads to rise in the quiet.

“Scotch—”

“Brandy! Shots of it!”

He glared at Sherlock, but reminded himself that this wasn’t for him, it was for his brother and if he wanted to get totally sloshed, it was up to him. Mycroft ignored the fact that he was just as bad. They did four shots apiece before Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the pool game going on and hurrying over. Normally this would only signal bad news to the older man, but perhaps it was his inebriation that caused him to grin and think it was a smashing idea.

“You’re going to lose,” Sherlock told the man that was bent over, aiming at the ball labeled six.

“Shove off,” the man growled.

“No, he’s quite right,” Mycroft agreed, leaning a little against his brother’s shoulder, who didn’t seem to notice or care. “That angle will only cause it to bounce off the wall three inches higher and miss what you’re aiming for.”

Before the man could answer, Sherlock reached into his pocket and slapped down some money on the side of the table. “Bet you’ll miss.”

“Bet I won’t.” There was a smirk at the three others around the pool table and he moved, but as predicted by both Holmes, it missed.

“How’d you know that?”

“Same way I know you’re actually cheating on your wife with your doctor, who you let bugger you all over the exam room.”

There was a pause, silence, before the man lunged at Sherlock. Mycroft managed to yank him back so the hand going for his shirt missed and instead landed on his own arm. He stumbled forward, stomach slamming against the edge of the pool table. A second man had grabbed a pool cue and swung it the two brothers. It managed to land against Sherlock’s cheek, tossing him back. The alcohol made his balance shite and he landed on the floor.

Mycroft laughed at the ‘what’ expression on Sherlock’s face only to grunt as he landed next to him from a punch to his jaw. Sherlock surged up, slamming his shoulder into the man that had hit him with the cue as Mycroft lay dazed. The first man, angry, yanked him up, and he muttered, “Hit me again and I’ll have the government on your head.”

“Oh yeah? I’d like to see that.”

His wind was knocked out of him at a punch to his stomach and suddenly he watched as Sherlock did his impression of a flying squirrel and leapt onto the man’s back, forcing him to let go of the elder statesman. Mycroft, now thoroughly incensed by the two men, rubbed his aching jaw and reached into his phone. The texts were too bleary to read, but he pressed his speed dial.

Anthea picked up on the first ring. “Where are you, sir?”

“I’ve been attacked,” he tried not to slur.

“Attacked? By who? Have you been kidnapped? Where—”

The phone was knocked out of his hand and landed on the floor, abruptly ending the call as it was smashed, and Mycroft wasn’t sure by who. “My phone,” he mourned, ducking the man swinging the pool cue around and kick at his ankle. By some miracle, it connected.

The fight continued for at least two more minutes. His ears seemed to be ringing or something because as he was unceremoniously kicked out the door, he thought he heard something…only to hiss and close his eyes as a bright light covered the whole area. Sherlock stumbled out next to him and muttered, “Helicopter?” Cars swarmed up close, men heavily armed tumbling out and the two men that had followed their targets outside quickly raised their hands in the air.

“Sir?”

Mycroft didn’t bother moving, staring up at Anthea as she hurried to him. “Late.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Time to go home, sir. Both of you.” She eyed the flipped car nearby and gestured for two men to haul him up.

Sherlock, surprisingly, didn’t seem to like that. He stumbled, batting away the hands that held Mycroft, and grabbed his arm. “He’s…fine!” the man slurred. “I’ve got him!”

He ignored the fact that really, if he fell over, his brother’s hold on his arm wouldn’t keep him up, but it gave him a nice fuzzy feeling on top of the alcohol he’d drank, so he didn’t complain. Their uncoordinated limbs as they managed to get in the back of the car managed to end up with Sherlock lying on the floor of the backseat as Mycroft mostly reclined on the seats themselves. It was terribly cramping on his legs.

“Get…a bigger car…Mycroft,” Sherlock complained into the carpet.

“Shut…up…” he groaned as the vehicle began to move. “Suppose you know a lot about backseats with John.”

“Yuuup. More’n you. When you gonna just do it with Lestrade?”

“None of your business.”

“Don’t want to go to his office and find you doing it there. Warning now.”

“What will you do about it if I was?”

“Something!” Sherlock pronounced, one hand pointing in the air as if he’d just solved the biggest case.

Mycroft snorted and laughed. Sherlock poked him repeatedly in his side for it. The door opened after a few minutes and his driver managed to help him out. Sherlock was in a worse way, and this time he ended up almost having to carry his brother to the door.

They stumbled into the house and he dragged him to the nearest room, which happened to be his living room. He paused, blinking repeatedly, and suddenly staring at a bright smile. “…Gre…Gregory?” he muttered, slurring just a little.

“You guys are completely wasted,” was the reply and Mycroft dropped his brother on the floor as he spotted an open bottle of whiskey nearby. He snatched it up and took a swig from his parched throat. “What happened?”

“Play a game!” Sherlock pronounced as he rolled over and reached for the bottle, getting in another tug of war with Mycroft, but eventually getting it and gulping some of it down.

“What game?” Lestrade asked, rolling over onto his side only to land on the floor next to the detective.

“Truth or dare,” was the muttered reply as Mycroft tried to get himself on the chair, but missed and landed on his rear on the floor.

“You go first then,” he said, pointing at his brother.

“Truth!”

“Who didn’t see that coming?” Greg commented with a drunk grin.

Mycroft thought about what he wanted to know and ended up asking the first thing that came to mind. “How’d you tell John you loved him?”

“Just told him…over…and over…and over. Since I came back. Took kissing him and almost fucking him against the wall before he admitted he loved me back.” There was a soft smile on Sherlock’s lips as he stared at the ceiling. “Lestrade! Truth or dare!”

“Dare.”

“Stand on your head,” Mycroft ordered, interrupting Sherlock and earning a fierce glare.

To his credit, he tried. He managed, laughing the whole way, to get his rear in the air before falling back down. “Fail,” Sherlock pronounced and turned his gray blue eyes on his brother. “Mycroft.”

“…Dare,” he said, not willing to admit any truths even in his inebriated state.

“Suck Lestrade off.”

“No…dares…like that,” Greg said, coming to his rescue even as Mycroft felt himself sliding down to lie on his side not quite of his own volition.

“Why not?”

His eyes were sliding closed and really, a nap sounded like a fantastic plan…

“Because…because!”

“No fun...” he thought he heard before he passed out.

The sound of someone moaning in pain woke Mycroft and he blinked his eyes open only to hiss and close them again. Too much light in the room! Taking a deep breath, he tried again and looked over. On the floor near him was Greg and Sherlock, Sherlock lying across the man’s legs and seeming to be using them as some sort of weird pillow. He was groggily coming to. Greg was the one that had made the noise, throwing his arm over his eyes.

He heard the front door open and close and he peered up at Anthea as she entered. “You’re awake.”

“Time?” he groaned and his voice sounded surprisingly hoarse and thick. He swallowed several times and would kill for water.

“Eight in the morning, sir. The wedding doesn’t start until two.”

“Who’s…bright idea was it…to have the stag night…the very day before the wedding?” Greg moaned.

“Yours,” both Holmes muttered.

Anthea disappeared and came back a moment later with a tray of water and if he could have, Mycroft would have lunged for it. As it was, it took more effort than he wanted to admit just to lever himself up on his elbow, then to sitting. His PA handed out paracetemol to all three men. “What happened last night?”

“You don’t remember, sir?”

“Very vaguely.”

“You went to a bar and then after two hours, you slipped out the back of the building and stole a car. You broke all the speeding limits and eventually flipped the car over near another bar. You were lucky neither of you sustained any injury besides bruising before going into another nearby pub where you proceeded to continue to drink then engaged into a bar fight. In the middle of it, you called me and said you were being attacked. When the call was lost a moment later, I feared the worst.” Her lips pursed just a little and he couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or admonishment. “We called in the Special Ops.”

He moaned in embarrassment. For a stupid bar fight?

“Good job, Mycroft,” Sherlock moaned and rolled over onto his stomach, off Greg’s legs and wobbled to his feet. He tottered out of the room toward what Mycroft assumed would be his bathroom.

“We’re never getting you drunk again, Mycroft,” Greg muttered. “You break all known laws if you are.”

He gave a bloodshot, annoyed eye at the detective that hadn’t moved. “And I’m assuming there were no such embarrassing moments in _your_ night out with John?”

“’Course not.”

Mycroft looked at Anthea, who proceeded to say, “While remaining in one place, there was an altercation inside the bar as Detective Inspector Lestrade had to argue with Doctor Watson about keeping his clothes on. A car was called, dropping Watson back at Baker’s Street, but Lestrade insisted he be brought here.”

“See? Not as noteworthy as calling the special ops to a bar fight.”

Mycroft dropped his face in his hands. “Anthea, make a note to never let me get drunk with Sherlock again.”

“You’re going to blame all that on me?!” the man in question half-snarled, naked except for a towel around his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said flatly without looking up, “and for god’s sake, put something on!”

“I’m way too hung over for this,” Greg muttered.

Never. Again.

-End-


	3. Reception Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade’s POV because I’ve realized that I’ve never written a scene like this from his perspective

Lestrade’s hands had curled into the back of Mycroft’s jacket as the tall man held him close, as if he was trying to bury his tongue inside his mouth. What had started out as sweet, gentlemanly as Mycroft had gently held his jaw had dissolved in exchange for passion. He was really tempted to just say screw the rest of the reception and find a bedroom, but it would be highly rude. Their lips broke with a heavy gasp, his lungs screaming in agony for having held out so long. That hand along his jaw tilted his head back and he let out a soft sigh of delight as lips began to mark down his neck.

Only for Mycroft to grunt and pull away to glare at Sherlock, who had pulled John close to the still pair in their dancing. His eyes flickered over to the side and he followed the brothers’ gaze. Coming their way was none other than…

He gulped as the four waited politely for the older couple to join them. Winifred Holmes was smiling brightly and she quickly hugged Sherlock. Mycroft seemed to be trying to hide his snickering as Sherlock attempted to squirm away like any boy that has been accosted by his mother for affection he doesn’t want to give, particularly in front of other people.

“Oh, I’m so happy for you, Sherlock!” She let go only to latch onto John, who actually returned the hug and suffered it with a happy smile of his own. “You take care of my baby, won’t you, John?” There was a slight edge of steel to her tone that was just enough warning that all four recognized it.

“’Course I will, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Call me Winifred or mother,” she told him, patting his shoulder as she let him go.

“Yes, I suppose he is considered part of the family now,” Mycroft commented, a slight teasing smile on his lips. “I would ask about children, but since you already have Sherlock, you really don’t need another baby.”

Sherlock glared, seeming to want to set Mycroft on fire with his eyes, but he smirked as Winifred lightly smacked his arm. “That’s enough now, Myc.”

“ _Mycroft_ is the name you gave me mother, if you could possibly struggle to the end of it.”

She sighed at him, but smiled and reached out to hug him. His reaction was not all that dissimilar from his brother’s, but he at least did it with a little more grace. “The wedding was beautiful, Mycroft. You did such a wonderful job for your brother, and your speech brought tears to my eyes.”

Mycroft shifted his weight from foot to foot in embarrassment as she let him go. “Thank you, mother.”

Sharp blue eyes turned to Sherlock, who flinched and seemed to have a sixth sense that he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say, if his expression was anything to go by. “Now, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“When Mycroft gets married,” There was a snort of disbelief at that, “I expect you to return the favor.”

There was a moment of absolutely stunned silence and then an evil smile began to curl Mycroft’s lips. Sherlock blanched and looked absolutely _horrified_ at the very thought of it. “No! No, absolutely not! Why would I do that?!”

“Because Mycroft spent all his time and money and effort for _yours_ and you _asked_ him to. When you ask someone a favor, you have to return it, Sherlock!”

“Well, more like ordered,” Greg muttered under his breath in amusement.

“But—”

“ _No_ , buts, Sherly. I expect you to do the same for your brother in fairness of what he’s done for you.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. “You’d better not get married,” he hissed, seeming to sense that he was not going to get out of it.

Mycroft, probably just to rile him up more, said, “Oh, I don’t know. I always liked the idea of coming home to someone waiting for me every night.”

The younger Holmes’ eyes flickered to him and he saw the evil look in it. Lestrade nudged Mycroft with his hand. It seemed to tip the man off because he stiffened, but couldn’t intervene fast enough before Sherlock said, “Are you going to ask Lestrade then?”

Winifred Holmes turned her sharp eyes to the detective and if it hadn’t been for Mycroft putting his foot directly behind his heel, pressing there to let him know he wasn’t going anywhere, he probably would have found a reason to excuse himself. “We’re merely friends, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, clearly hoping to forestall disaster as his mother opened her mouth, most likely to demand to know why her eldest hadn’t told her that he was dating someone.

“So you regularly stick your tongue down your friends throats, do you, Mycroft?”

John seemed to have trouble breathing as he was desperately trying not to laugh and Greg glared at him, silently asking for his help. Sure they had talked a bit about it, but he wasn’t sure if a relationship was even that feasible right then, or if Mycroft had just agreed or not. After all, Mycroft had only told him that it was difficult to date a Holmes, not that he actually wanted to do it.

Deciding to take the bull by the horns and stop the escalating game between the two brothers, Greg said, “Yes, Sherlock, we’re just friends right now. That’s all Mycroft wants.”

He almost wilted under the combined attention from all three Holmes’ and he wondered if what he’d said was a horribly bad idea. Winifred was looking at him particularly thoughtfully. Sherlock rolled his eyes after a minute and said, “That is the stupidest thing to have ever come out of your mouth, Lestrade. It’s clear that Mycroft has been barely restraining himself from bending you over—”

“Sherlock!” The sharp word came from John. He was no longer looking amused. “Enough, Sherlock,” he said again when his husband’s eyes turned to him. “Leave Mycroft and Greg alone. Whatever happens is none of your, or my, business. If something happens that they want us to know, they’ll tell us.”

“Well said, John!” Charles Holmes congratulated with a smile.

“Indeed. I’m quite happy to welcome you into the family, John dear.”

John smiled at his new in-laws and grabbed his husband’s hand. “Now, I think we’ll…head out. Get in a good night sleep. We’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow morning, right?”

He wasn’t fooling anyone; knowing Sherlock, John wouldn’t be getting _any_ sleep that night, but he thought it best to let the man live in his little fantasy world as long as he wanted. As the two disappeared, Sherlock smirking and eyes trained on John’s rear, Lestrade chuckled and turned back to the elder Holmes’. “Would you like to dance, Mrs. Holmes?” he asked politely.

“Call me Winifred, dear, and I’d love to.”

As he was about to take her hand, Mycroft wrapped an arm around his waist possessively. “Actually, Gregory and I were about to slip out as well.”

“We were?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft’s mother chuckled and waved them away, her husband taking her hand and tugging her to dance with him instead. Greg raised an eyebrow at his tall partner, only to shiver when Mycroft leaned in and kissed him deeply on the edge of his jaw. “Yeah, we were just leaving,” he muttered in complete agreement. He allowed Mycroft to lead him from the room and to his car. As he fumbled in his pocket for his keys, lean fingers reached into his jacket and removed them before sitting behind the wheel. Okay, so that ended the question of who was driving…

As he settled into the car and pulled on a seatbelt, he listened to the purr of the engine. “I thought the wedding turned out great, Mycroft,” he said, feeling awkward in the silence as the car pulled out of the parking lot. He felt eyes flicker to him briefly before returning to the road. “And I like your parents.”

“They like you too,” Mycroft murmured. Greg didn’t bother asking how he knew. As he fumbled mentally, trying to find a topic, he jumped a little when a hand touched his thigh. Mycroft’s fingers eased down, rubbing the inside of his thigh. He glanced at the man in question, but his attention was firmly fixed on the road.

Greg swallowed a little, the action soothing him as he relaxed against the seat, only to twitch in surprise as that hand slid from around his knee toward his crotch. They stopped just before they reached where he really wanted them to be, instead teasing his leg just before that.

“Mycroft,” he muttered, half in warning and half in desire.

Mycroft smirked, eyes glued in front of him, before a single, tormenting finger eased out and touched him through his pants. With his attention hyper aware, it was like someone had lit fire in his veins. “Seriously, are you going to tease me all the way to…wherever we’re going?”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”

Liar. He half-glared, but there was a smile on his lips. “Where are we going, Mycroft?”

His answer was in the form of Mycroft turning into the parking lot of a fancy hotel. Naturally he’d pick a church that had a hotel like this within a fifteen minute drive. The hand on his thigh disappeared as they both exited the car. Just as he closed the door, arms wrapped around him and needy lips latched onto his as if Mycroft couldn’t breathe if they weren’t kissing. He moaned before he could help it, feeling his back pressing against the car door, and he wondered if they’d even get to the room at this rate.

But Mycroft controlled himself, whispering a heated ‘Gregory’ in his ear before stepping back. His hands followed the tall man, gripping his black jacket and locking lips again. They stumbled a bit before he pulled back, laughing a little. “Okay, we really need to stop if we’re going to get to the room.”

There was a growl of annoyance, the lust in the redhead’s eyes clear, but he turned. It was the first time that he had ever seen Mycroft _hurry_ , and they walked right past the front desk. “Hey, aren’t we going to get a room? Wait, let me guess: you already had one booked?”

“Observant, detective,” was the reply, only to be shoved up against the back of the elevator that was, thankfully, empty. Greg didn’t see the floor number that Mycroft fumbled with because he was too busy diving his tongue into his mouth again. Really, his trousers were not tailored to accommodate erections and he groaned in desire when a knee slid between his legs. “Mycroft,” he whispered hoarsely as the man pulled away from his kiss-swollen lips to mark his neck. Fingers were tugging at his tie and he returned the favor, working shakily on the buttons in front of him.

The ding of the elevator interrupted them, but this time Mycroft literally dragged him down the hall. He produced a small key from his jacket and all but threw Greg in, locking the door behind them. Lestrade glanced around the room and of course, Mycroft had spared no expense on it. There was an adjoining bath that seemed to be made of marble, a bar, and a massive king size bed.

When he turned around, he noted that Mycroft was moving toward him in an almost predatory fashion. His  mind was almost swallowed up by desire at that point and Greg yanked off his jacket and tie, but before he could get further, even nudge his shoes off, he found arms wrapping around him tightly. They stumbled back together, tearing at clothes and he thought he might have pulled a few buttons off on Mycroft’s shirt, but the other man didn’t seem to care.

He grunted as he found himself suddenly on his back on the bed, feeling something hard pressing against his hip. At least Mycroft was in the same fix he was. “Shit, Mycroft,” he muttered in between frantic kissing. “God…”

“Yes?” There was a chuckle against his neck as those elegant fingers began touching his bare chest. Lestrade squirmed, managing to kick off his shoes and letting them fall to the floor with a satisfying thump. “I should have done this two nights ago.”

“What are you planning on doing then?”

“Fucking you raw.”

Hearing the proper gentleman curse turned Greg on fiercely. He didn’t even realize that it would until he heard the words fall from Mycroft’s perfect lips and he moaned desperately. A ginger eyebrow rose and then a smirk was thrown his way. Clearly he’d figured it out and the detective blushed fiercely.

“Do you like dirty language, Gregory?”

“When you say it? Hell yes.”

“Why?” Mycroft pushed himself to his knees as he asked, tugging at Greg’s pants and yanking them down his legs before he threw them on the floor, his underwear going the same way.

“Because it’s you,” he muttered.

“That’s hardly an answer.” One hand stroked teasingly over Greg’s erection and he gasped, arching a bit. “Haven’t you learned to be specific in your career, Detective Inspector?”

He whined tortured delight, watching as his partner left the bed entirely, taking off his shoes and just allowing his clothes to drop among the pile. His eyes looked down, shuddering at what he saw. Mycroft was big everywhere and while yes, Greg had dated men before he’d been married, it had been a long time ago and no one had quite been that…large. That predatory look was back in Mycroft’s eyes and he watched as he crawled back over Greg’s naked body.

“Well, Gregory?”

“Well what?”

“ _Why_ do you enjoy me talking dirty to you? I won’t say a word or do anything unless you tell me.”

Greg whimpered in frustration. “Because you’re so…you. You’re prim, proper, the absolute example of perfect British gentleman.” His eyes followed Mycroft’s movements. As soon as he’d started talking, the man had reached for a drawer next to the bed, pulling out a wrapped condom and some lube, dropping them on the bed next to his head. “I’ve never heard you curse before and—oh fuck!”

Mycroft had gone straight for the gold, easing a finger into his rear. At the very least he was being gentle in consideration for Greg’s lack of recent experience. “Do you want me to curse and talk dirty to you then?” he whispered in the man’s ear, licking at the shell.

“Oh _god_ yes.”

He crashed their lips together with passion, fingers digging into Mycroft’s strong back. As he was in everything else, Mycroft was highly methodical and he mapped out every part of Greg’s body before he finally found what he was looking for. Their kiss was broken when he threw his head back and let out a soft yell of delight when his prostate was gently stroked. A second finger slid in then and he clenched before he could stop himself.

“Relax, Gregory. Don’t you want me to fuck you? I can’t do that if you won’t relax.”

That smooth, silky voice was like a purr and he let out a whimpering cry before he forced his muscles to relax. Those fingers retreated only to return with more lube on them, this time deliberately working to loosen him rather than explore. “Shoulda done this…two days ago,” he agreed.

“And if I had? Would you be as needy then? You look so slutty, waiting for me, begging for me. I can read you like an open book, and you’re screaming for me to fuck you raw.”

He couldn’t take much more of this torment. Greg would never tell Mycroft, but he hadn’t really imagined this; somehow he had figured that the tall man would be sweet, gentle, but instead he was like an untamed wild animal. “Mycroft!” he cried out, lifting up his hips into the thrusting fingers. “Oh, fuck, Mycroft, _please_. Just fuck me.”

“I am, Gregory. You’ve been fucking yourself on my fingers for awhile now.”

“You know what I want! Give me your cock, please!”

Greg wasn’t quite sure if that was a smirk or a smile, but lips were on his frantically. He felt fingers fumbling next to his head. Their lips didn’t part and he whined in desire when his prostate was jabbed again. The fumbling grew worse and then their lips parted and something light fell on the floor. “Shit,” Mycroft muttered . “The condom—”

“Fuck it,” Greg told him. “Forget it, just…get in me!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, god, _please_ Mycroft!”

Mycroft eased up on his knees, lifting Greg’s hips into his lap and he watched as the man aligned himself before easing in as gently as could. He hissed just a little, feeling himself stretch to accommodate the large mass. A soft whimper escaped, but Mycroft didn’t stop until he had settled himself completely inside.

“Ohhh fuck,” Mycroft moaned above him, head falling back. “Ohhh, Gregory, you’re so tight…”

Greg moaned and as he let his body get accustomed to the invasion, his eyes stared lustfully at the man above him that was lost in pleasure. “You’re beautiful,” he muttered. The words brought Mycroft’s head back down, eying him somehow both skeptically and suspiciously. “No I’m not just saying that because you’ve got your cock up my ass. Really.” Why did this perfect man seem to have such a low opinion of himself?

A soft smile touched chiseled lips and he leaned down. They shared a soft kiss before Mycroft surprised him by pulling out and thrusting back in sharply. Greg let out a yell. “Wild, hot sex, remember?” he purred in his ear. Something had changed, taken the edge off. It was no longer quite so impersonal, so lust based, Greg thought as he wrapped his arms around the man driving him into the bed. It was _Mycroft_ he was holding, and _Mycroft_ was holding back.

“God, fuck me, Mycroft,” he moaned.

“I am,” Mycroft growled back, biting his neck far too high to cover with a collar. It was an obvious mark, one he wouldn’t be able to hide from work. His hips jerked in time with his partner’s movements, clenching and loosening every time his prostate was hit.

Slim fingers shifted Greg’s legs to brace against his shoulders and Mycroft drove in harder and faster. One of Greg’s hands reached up, finding the headboard and he gripping it tightly as he knocked a pillow off onto the floor. “Mycroft,” he chanted helplessly, and it only seemed to delight his partner. The more he said it, the sweeter the touches on his body became, gentle and tender in direct contrast to the rough, hard movements of his hips.

“Gregory, I’m…very close now. Should I pull out?”

Frantically Greg shook his head, but his mind was so jumbled, he couldn’t seem to remember how to say anything other than Mycroft’s name. His ankles locked behind his neck, yelling a bit as Mycroft’s fingers found his erection and began to tug in frantic motions. He shoved himself hard onto that length when he came, not caring if others heard him…but he doubted it. Somehow with the quality of this room, he would bet that it would muffle his sounds.

A moment later he felt the man’s seed spray him inside and he panted heavily, staring at the ceiling, but not really seeing it. “Oh…god…Mycroft…”

All he heard was panting above him for a moment before Mycroft gently eased his legs back down to the bed and slid out. Once again in that drawer, he pulled out some tissues and cleaned them both before collapsing next to Greg. “Thanks,” he muttered, as he was feeling too pleased to consider moving to do that. After a minute he rolled over onto his side to face the tall man who had been suspiciously silent. “Mycroft?” He waited until those eyes turned to him and he asked hesitantly, “Something wrong? Was it…bad?”

There was a blink at him, as if the words had failed to register, but when they did, a frown was sent his way. “Bad?”

“Well…you…” He sat up in concern. “I mean, it’s been awhile since I’ve had sex, particularly with a guy, and you were just staring into nothing, not saying anything. I’m not a Holmes-whisperer like John, okay? I can’t read your expression yet, so I don’t know if that blank stare is ‘that was so good that I’m speechless’ or a ‘that was so terrible, it was the worst night of my life’.” Mycroft’s frown deepened and Greg blanched. So ‘worst night’ then.

“ _Who_ told you that?”

He blinked. “What?”

Like earlier, Mycroft moved like a predator as he sat up and came closer, a demanding look in his eyes. “That you were the worst night of their life?”

“Uh, well…I don’t…remember his name anymore. It was in Uni, I remember that. My first time being a bottom for a guy and I didn’t really know what I was doing. I guess it was because I just kind of laid there? I didn’t know anything then and—” Hands gripped his legs, separating them and he had to grab Mycroft’s shoulders quickly as the man pulled him into his lap to straddle him as he knelt on the bed. “Mycroft?”

“If I ever find out who that was—”

“Woah, slow down. What? Why are you angry?”

“Detective Inspector Gregory Dean Lestrade, you will _never_ be ‘worst night of my life’. If he failed to enjoy it, then clearly he was doing something wrong. I never want to hear those words out of your mouth again, do you understand me?” the tall man ordered, making a shiver go down Greg’s spine that he really hoped Mycroft didn’t notice. Last thing he wanted to let him know right then was that apparently he had developed a fetish for being given orders by this powerful man.

“Then…”

“I was merely basking in the glow of the _best_ night of my life, so I would thank you to keep the insulting words about yourself silent.”

That was the strangest compliment he’d ever heard… “So you’re saying you want me to _think_ the insulting words, but not say them? Sorry, I shall promise not to interrupt your high again.”

Mycroft eyed him, but the frown eased to a smile as he saw that Greg was teasing him. Arms moved from his hips to around his back and Mycroft shifted to lean back against the headboard, holding the detective in place on his lap. “It was truly the most amazing moment of my life, Gregory.”

Greg couldn’t help the smile that came over him. It was probably silly-looking, stupid, and not fit for a man in his forties, but he couldn’t help it. “Well, Mycroft Holmes, you were beyond even my wildest dreams. I don’t think ‘best night of my life’ covers it.”

“That’s disappointing to hear.”

“Why?”

“Now there is clearly no way in which I can reach such an unattainable height again.”

“Oh, I think you can,” he purred, leaning against Mycroft’s chest and kissing him lightly. “This mean that this’ll be a regular occurrence?”

At first, Mycroft didn’t respond and Greg didn’t push him. He allowed the man to think about it, knowing what it was that Greg was asking. His fingers through his chest hair lightly and hoped that the phone he’d kept in his pocket hadn’t broken in their haste to get undressed. His partner’s hands were easing up and down his spine, dipping to his rear briefly before dancing along his back again.

“If I imagine myself with someone on a consistent basis in a romantic sense, all I can see is you.” Mycroft rubbed his knuckles lightly over Greg’s cheek and granted him a soft smile. “I don’t know where this will go, Gregory, but I would like to find out.”

“So would I,” he replied, taking that hand and kissing the back of it. “My perfect British gentleman. And who knows, maybe the next wedding we attend, it’ll be ours?” he teased. “I’d love to see what kind of wedding Sherlock would put together.”

Mycroft’s smile was indulgent and he whispered mysteriously, “We’ll see.”


	4. Wedding of the Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, Mystrade's wedding!

“ _What_ did I tell you at your wedding a year ago, dear?”

Sherlock blanched, John raising an eyebrow, and he barely resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. This was not how the day was _supposed_ to go. He’d have preferred to spend an entire morning in bed making walking difficult for his partner then go to Lestrade and get a case, all the while successfully avoiding Mycroft. It would be his perfect day.

Then she had to ruin it.

He heard telltale footsteps on the stairs and he groaned, putting it on speaker phone. “I don’t remember such dull and inane conversations.”

Mycroft, as usual, didn’t knock and instead just walked in as if he owned the place. It was one of his brother’s more annoying habits. There was a case file stuck under his arm and Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was excited, because despite everything Mycroft always picked the most complicated and interesting ones, and frustration and annoyance because it was Mycroft.

The elder Holmes’ feet froze when their mother’s voice flowed into the flat. “I told you that when Myc gets married, you would be planning his wedding.”

“Who says he’s getting married?” he spat at the same time as Mycroft said, “I don’t really think that’s necessary."

“Oh, wonderful, you’re there as well, Myc! Congratulations!”

“…How did you even know? Gregory didn’t ask me until this morning.”

“Now does that matter, dear?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said abruptly.

Yet Winifred Holmes continued without a pause, as if she didn’t hear him. “What does matter is that fair is fair and Sherlock is going to plan your wedding in return.”

Mycroft was turning alarmingly pale and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Interesting. In the goal of expending less effort, he merely flopped down on the sofa and rested his head in John’s lap, letting his older brother take up the task of arguing with his mother.

“It _really_ isn’t necessary. Gregory and I were merely planning to go to the court house and sign the papers. There was no plan for an actual wedding.”

The silence that followed was like the calm before the storm. In an instant, all three men could see that what Mycroft had said was the absolute worst thing he could have. “Now, Mycroft, dear.”

“I know that tone,” Sherlock said in a dull voice, the sound of his mother’s calm, implacable, and very gentle voice that threatened bodily harm if one didn’t follow its orders even if it was framed like a request. That meant very bad news for the both of them.

“Mummy—”

“I don’t want to tell you how to run your life,” Both Holmes’ brothers snorted in disagreement about that, “but I think that would be a _big mistake_. You only get to have a wedding once and you wouldn’t want to deprive yourselves of that wonderful event. Don’t you remember Sherlock’s wedding and how nice that was?”

Mycroft blanched worse than Sherlock had earlier. “Oh, yes, I do very much remember.”

“See? Doesn’t that make you want your own wedding?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mycroft Holmes, sometimes you don’t even know what’s best for you! You’ll regret it for the rest of your life!”

“A ceremony can be performed later. Much later. Later, possibly after I have passed away on my deathbed.”

“It wouldn’t be the same, and please don’t speak of dying to me. It’s very distressing, to hear your eldest son speak of that! You don’t want to make me cry, do you?” There was a sniffle and Mycroft and Sherlock stiffened, each fighting the impulse to run. “Now, it’s your decision, of course, but I think you should at least talk to Gregory about how he feels.”

“…You _haven’t_ …”

“Spoken to him? Of course, dear, I had to congratulate him as well.”

The words were like a death knell and Sherlock watched as the great power of Britain crumbled. Mycroft lowered himself into John’s chair, resting his eyes against his palm in a mirror of a year ago in Lestrade’s office when he had announced his elder brother would plan his wedding. Both Sherlock and Mycroft knew, even if John was looking mystified, that the argument was over. She would have, of course, convinced the detective that a wedding was a good idea; in fact, she had probably convinced him that _Mycroft_ secretly wanted it, but would never say so.

Mycroft would never refuse Lestrade.

“Boys?” Mycroft’s heavy sigh alerted her that no, they hadn’t hung up. She sensed she had won and Sherlock wanted to hide behind his husband as he could almost feel her turning to him. “Now, Sherlock, don’t disappoint me and don’t you dare make John do all the work.” That was as good as ordering him to plan the wedding and he moaned in protest. “So Mycroft, just lean back and relax. Oh, Charles is calling me, dears, I have to go, but I love you both so much! Take care of them, John!”

There was a dial tone hitting the silent apartment and John was the first to reach forward to end the call. “So…”

“I think it should first be stipulated that any ‘stag night’ that occurs, Sherlock and I should _not_ be put together. England could not stand another with the two of us together.”

“…From what I’ve heard, I agree,” John said, running his hands through Sherlock’s curls. “Sherlock can take Greg out and that’ll leave you and me.”

“About the—”

“What part of what Mummy said did you not get?” Sherlock spat out with more venom than usual because he really, really didn’t want to do this. “Are you really going to _defy_ her when she’s in that mood?”

“Defy? What did she say?”

He rolled over, back facing Mycroft and burying his face in John’s stomach. “He was ordered by Mummy to not have any hand in the planning.”

“Unfortunately. Sherlock—”

“Of course I’m going to do it, Mycroft.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Sherlock—”

“Shut up, Mycroft. I don’t want to do it, but I’ll at least do it right.”

There was a long moment of silence before his brother said, “I trust you will agree to being my best man?”

Sherlock rolled over onto his back again to look at his older brother, who seemed resigned and expecting him to decline. “Did you really feel the need to waste breath asking? Everyone knows that you’d pick me for that role.” Mycroft managed a worn smile and stood up, taking the case file with him. “Give that here.”

“No, Sherlock. You will have enough to do, trust me.”

“I want a case!” he all but whined.

“You have one: planning my wedding.”

“…I really hate him,” Sherlock muttered as Mycroft straightened his suit and stalked out the door.

John leaned down and kissed his forehead. “No, you don’t. Now, since you ignored everything that goes on in planning a wedding for ours, guess it’s your turn to start googling how to plan Mycroft’s. I suppose you know what he wants?”

“Of course. He’ll want it to be as small as possible, to minimize all the fuss.” Sherlock sat up and headed over to his desk and his laptop. “The guest list will likely include Lestrade’s team and Anthea. Mycroft won’t want to invite anyone else, even our parents, though I suppose they should be invited by default.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s paranoid and those he works with are not people he’d want at a ceremony that makes him happy.” He looked up from the screen and what he was typing. “Unless you want him working? If colleagues from work come, he will likely work. The only one we can rely on to prevent that from happening is Anthea; she won’t give him anything, and trust me, he’ll be like a junkie near the end, begging for work.”

His partner stood up and wandered to the kitchen and after a minute, Sherlock heard the sound of a tea kettle being warmed. “So, how small a wedding are we talking?”

“Depends on how large Lestrade’s family is. We’ll have his team, I’m sure they’ll insist on coming; they insisted on mine, though god knows why. They’ll have even more incentive now. By the way, John, tell them to make it clear that they’re not invited on stag night.”

John came back to the living room. “What? Why me? Why should it matter?”

“Because if I’m responsible for the stag night, I’d rather not have a lowering of the IQ more than necessary. Besides…”

As he trailed off, his husband began to grin. “Ahh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What deductions have you come across now?”

“You just want it to be you and Lestrade. You know, it’s not like you’ll never see him again after this. It’s a wedding, not a goodbye party or anything.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to ignore that John was at least partially right. “All those invited will have to be vetted by Anthea and myself; wouldn’t do to let an assassin in on Mycroft’s ‘big day’, despite the fact that I’m sure it would be more interesting than anything else. Our parents are, regretfully, a must to be invited and I suppose Lestrade’s family.”

“Greg’s father and I think he has a younger brother. His mother died a few years ago. He’s got an uncle and some cousins—”

“We’ll go with immediate family then.”

“You’ve got to at least send them a card or something, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re his family.”

He looked up from his laptop again, this time in exasperation. “If we send them a card, they’ll come.”

“Sherlock…” John pursed his lips, looking particularly stubborn.

Spotting John’s phone on the edge of the desk, he grabbed it. “Really, John? Mycroft is speed dial two and Lestrade three?” He pressed the third number, setting it on speaker phone so he could still type.

It took five rings before the detective picked up and his voice was a whisper. “John? What is it?”

“Do I have to send a card to your uncle and cousins?”

There was a moment of silence before he heard shifting and a door opening and closing. By the sound of it— “I’m in _court_ , Sherlock!”

“No, now you’re in the bathroom.”

“Because I’m talking to you! Can’t this wait? Why are you John’s phone?”

“You wouldn’t pick up if I called.”

“You mean it was nearest you, wasn’t it?”

…It was kind of frustrating they knew him so well. “Answer the question.”

“Sherlock, do we have to do this now?”

“I’m making out the guest list, so yes.”

“We haven’t even set a date!”

“October 15th.”

“…What?”

“Your wedding date. Don’t want a summer wedding, it’ll be too hot and Mycroft will sweat. Besides, he’s always had a preference for winter weather, which is stupid to have any kind of attachment to what type of _weather_ —”

“If I answer this question, will you shut up and hang up? I’ve got to be on the stand in twenty minutes.”

“Yes.”

“Then no.”

Maybe it was the finality, or the violence in the voice, but Sherlock sensed something far beyond hatred there. John frowned. “Why? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to…” So John had sensed it too.

“Because he molested my brother when he was eight years old. When Da found out, he stabbed him. Two inches to the right and it woulda been his heart. He spent fifteen years in jail and lives in the country, where I hope he rots.” There was a pause as Sherlock felt an increasing dread and rage building in him. “I was the one that told Da after he did it to me because Tommy didn’t say anything.”

It wasn’t as if Sherlock couldn’t make the leap once he knew that the younger brother had been molested; it would be rare if the other sibling was left alone. He felt his fingers curl briefly into a fist as he heard John say, “…I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“It’s fine. I’m not scarred or anything. Got us into counseling right after it happened and it wasn’t like it was years of abuse. It’s just not something I want to talk about. Nobody knows about it…so _don’t_ tell Mycroft, Sherlock.”

“I won’t,” he promised, something he knew he could keep.

“Look, I’ve got to go, my turn on the stand. If you need something, make it _later_ , preferably after work!”

He listened to the dial tone before he ended the call and bent all his attention on the laptop. John, looking a tad murderous, returned to the kitchen at the calling of the tea kettle. Sherlock waited until he was alone before he stood and stepped out of the flat. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.

“Already, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice was calm.

 “I trust you took care of it?”

There was a pause, but not as if Mycroft didn’t know what he was talking about, but more as if he were deciding what he wanted to tell him. It was…almost…amazing at how well his brother knew his tone of voice to pick up on what he was talking about. “What makes you think I did anything?”

“Because you would have known about his family history and this is the man you love.”

“So you assume I would have acted like you would if it had happened to John?”

Sherlock stiffened as his imagination played itself out and he felt close to clawing at something in rage. “What are you talking about?”

“Come now, Sherlock, we both know that if John had been molested, you would have exacted your own version of justice.”

“You think I would have shot him?”

“Of course not. No, I think you would be more inventive. I’m not so foolish as to not know you still have friends among your drug dealers. It would be child’s play for you to overdose someone else with your drug of choice.”

…Fine, so Mycroft knew him better than most. “This isn’t about John.”

“No, it’s not.” He could almost hear his brother thinking. “I will admit my first impulse was the same as yours. I had to cancel three meetings because I couldn’t trust that in my anger, I wouldn’t lash out at someone else. I had to restrain myself, however, because Gregory would not approve. It might have jeopardized all that I had with him when he learned his uncle had been assassinated.”

“I refuse to believe you remained idle.”

“No, you want to know I did something to him to assuage your own feelings of anger that your friend was violated.” Before he could argue, Mycroft continued. “I assure you, he was not left alone. I’m perfectly content to let Gregory think he remains as a recluse in the country.”

A smile stretched Sherlock’s lips. “You found convenient evidence of what in his flat? Terrorist documents?”

He could almost hear Mycroft flicking dirt from underneath his fingernails. “If the local police happened to find evidence that he was in charge of a human trafficking ring and will remain incarcerated for the rest of his life with no chance of release, it was _hardly_ my doing.”

Sherlock didn’t need to ask if it was true; of course it wasn’t. The man was just a petty, sick man that had turned against his family. Mycroft had just assured that the man was returned back to where he belonged: behind bars. “Do you believe him?” he asked curiously. “That he has no mental scars?”

“…I do. Gregory is a very strong man and he would never have let such things hold him back.”

“Your sentiment is showing.”

“As is yours, brother dear. Now I’m quite busy. Was there anything else?”

“I’m thinking about a vegan meal—”

“ _Goodbye_ , Sherlock,” his brother responded at his teasing and hung up.

“Sherlock? What are you doing out here?”

He looked over his shoulder at John poking his head outside the flat. He seemed calmer now, as if he had dealt with his emotions quite sufficiently. Sherlock couldn’t help it; he leaned in and kissed his partner deeply, fully, wrapping him in his embrace. The world seemed to right itself from where it had tilted after finding out about Lestrade’s past. Mycroft had taken care of the problem and John was here, safe, and untouched by anyone except himself.

“Get your coat.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“To find our venue. We only have four months to complete all the preparations.”

“Sherlock, are you sure you wouldn’t rather just hire a caterer or a wedding planner?”

Sherlock gave him an affronted look. “Absolutely not, John. Now, are you coming or not?”

John sighed, but there was that smile he loved and pulled on his jacket. “So much for my tea.”

-0-

“So how are the plans going?” Lestrade asked as Sherlock leaned over the body on the beach and ignored the sloshing of water up to his shoes from the Thames.

It was now July and Sherlock was finally delighted to have a case worth pursuing to at least distract him from the wedding plans. He would never actually say it, but now he was feeling sorry for Mycroft. Wedding planning was tedious, boring, and stressful. Despite throwing out half of the things needing to be done like dress fittings, there was still more than enough work to be done to take up the next four months. Once others had learned that Lestrade and Mycroft were engaged, people had started calling him and showing up asking _him_ about it. All of those from Mycroft’s side were clearly merely attempting to weasel their way in to the celebration for a badge of status, because after all, Mycroft invited _them_ to his wedding, such a prestigious event.

Those that approached from the detective inspector’s side were harder to quantify. Some honestly seemed to just want to be invited, old acquaintances and even an ex or two that Greg seemed to be friendly with. They were the most frustrating because it meant he had to call every single time to Lestrade to ask whether or not they should be invited. Normally he would have just said no, but John had threatened to withhold sex if he made a unilateral decision over the guest list without consulting Lestrade. John seemed to trust him on those from Mycroft’s side, but not from the inspector’s. Frustrating double standard.

“Fine,” he muttered in distraction, peering at the fingernails of the woman. Worn, edges ragged. She was a biter then, not just as a nervous affliction, but as a habit in general. No obvious signs of trauma. So she either drowned in the Thames, or the body was placed there.

“Got the guest list sorted then?”

“So far. I’m sure there will be more stupid people coming out of the woodwork to be invited for some reason. It’s just a wedding and not even _your_ first.”

Lestrade just grinned. He’d been in an insanely good mood for the past month, ever since Sherlock had been forced to take over planning for the wedding. His ‘friend’ hadn’t even bothered or tried to hide that it was because he was taking pleasure in the consulting detective’s pain at having to organize everything.

“Got the cake all picked out?”

“Yes.”

“Food?”

“Yes.”

“Place?”

“God, Lestrade, yes, so shut up!”

If anything, the man’s grin got bigger and the only reason he didn’t try to strangle the smug bastard was because John showed up with two coffees, handing one to his partner. John had been invaluable, as usual. Most people, for some reason, seemed inclined to argue when Sherlock told them that they would be using the space for the wedding or that this or that would be made. John was able to smooth it over, though, always. John said it was because he _asked_ instead of ordered, but wasn’t that what he had done?

“Doubtful she drowned in the Thames. Definitely murder. I need to do a toxicology—”

“ _Molly_ will be doing a toxicology. Oh, and I want Molly at the wedding.”

“Of course she is,” he said annoyed, straightening up from his crouched position. “I asked her when I asked your team.”

“Sherlock, you didn’t _ask_ my team, you walked into the room, said everyone would be there, and that was it. They didn’t even know I was engaged then, and Molly wasn’t even in the building to hear, so you’ve got to send her an invitation. An official one.”

Sherlock frowned, but John just put his hand on his arm. “It’s taken care of, Greg. I’ve done all the official invitations for everyone on the guest list.”

“Thought it was supposed to be all Sherlock?”

“Like I could get him to sit down and write out invitations. Besides, you helped Mycroft; I’m helping Sherlock.”

Lestrade held up his hands. “Hey, not complaining, just commenting. I’m happy you’re helping. _Really_ happy.”

The two shared a smile and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “When you two are finished, you can find me at Bart’s, examining the _dead body._ ”

He heard their chuckles as he stalked away.

-0-

Having learned from previous experience, Sherlock had scheduled the stag night at least two days before the actual wedding. Deciding to get back at his brother, he insisted that Lestrade stay at 221B after the event. As he headed down the stairs and out the building, he noted the man in question was looking just a little concerned and trying not to at the thought of Sherlock and what he had planned.

“In the cab, Lestrade.”

“What are we doing tonight, Sherlock?”

He waited until the door was closed and the cab moving before he said, “I plan to take you to every bar that was near a crime scene that we worked at.”

“What—Sherlock, do you know just how many bars that is?!”

“Yes. Thirty-two to be precise. I’ve measured the correct intake so by the time we’ve reached the last one—”

“…God, I hope John has a better plan for Mycroft…”

-0-

John smiled at Mycroft as the man’s car eased up next to him as we waited on the steps from the hospital. There was a knowing look from the driver as he slid in and somehow, even though he didn’t see them, he was sure that there were plenty of Mycroft’s people in the wings to make sure what happened the last time he’d gone out on a stag night didn’t happen again.

“So what exactly are you planning tonight, John?”

“Well if you’re worried I’m deliberately going to get you drunk, relax. There’s drinking, yeah, but I’m not planning on getting you plastered.”

It was by virtue of having known Sherlock and Mycroft for so long that he could see the relief flash over the older man’s features. He was clearly not keen on repeating the events of a year ago. “Then what shall we be doing?”

“Going to a pub and talking, I guess. I don’t think you’d appreciate going to a strip club.”

“…No, in fact, I wouldn’t. What, by chance, is Sherlock doing with Gregory?”

“Bar hopping, far as I know.”

-0-

“Sherlock, _this is a strip club_!”

“It has a bar!” Sherlock looked around with a faint frown. “…It wasn’t a strip club before.”

“The last time we were here was seven years ago! Things change!”

This was bar three, and he really hoped this wouldn’t signal a problem for later in the evening. He hadn’t counted on the changes to the bars themselves. Seven years was not an overly long time. Instead, Sherlock shoved Lestrade into a seat at a small table and headed to the bar and placed the beakers on the counter. “Two beers, four hundred and forty seven milliliters.”

The barman glanced at him, but otherwise seemed unsurprised. A good bartender then. As soon as they were filled, he returned to the tablet. Lestrade was staring at the table, the floor, the other patrons before looking at the stage with the mostly naked women.

“Sherlock, if you tell anyone about being in a strip club…”

“I think you should have said if I tell _Mycroft_ about you being in a strip club.”

Lestrade choked a bit on his beer. “Sherlock!”

“Drink up,” he encouraged with a smile.

-0-

“So you’re not nervous at all?” John asked with a tilt of his head, sipping at his pint of beer. They had settled in an out of the way corner table in the fairly quiet pub. He had deliberately ordered a bottle of scotch for Mycroft, seeing the way he’d looked disinterestedly at the beer.

“About?”

“Getting married. I was nervous, I’ll admit.”

“Why? Surely you are aware that Sherlock adores you.”

John laughed a bit. ‘Adore’? Not a word he would have chosen to apply to his husband, but it made him happy nonetheless. “I know he loves me, and I love him; doesn’t mean I can’t be nervous about tying the knot. It changes things, well for most people. Not much has changed for us, unless you count Sherlock keeping me up almost every night now.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and John blushed as he realized he’d just disclosed the sexual habits of his husband to said husband’s brother. He cleared his throat. This night was not about him, it was about Mycroft and at the very least, he was more sensitive than Sherlock would be about what Mycroft would prefer the evening to be.

“So you’re not?”

“…I will admit to…a few nerves. There is still time for Gregory to change his mind.”

“You think he will?”

“Perhaps more worried he will. He cannot help but think of his last marriage and its ending, undoubtedly.”

“I don’t think he is,” John attempted to reassure him. “John is absolutely in love with you and he’s not going into this wedding thinking about if it’s going to fail. That’s a self-fulfilling prophecy if he does.”

Another scotch was brought over and there was a soft smile on his lips. “You are truly wasted on my brother, John.”

John laughed.

-0-

“Bar…fifteen!” Sherlock announced, stumbling and having to hang on the doorknob to keep himself steady. Lestrade wasn’t moving any better, but he had a grin on his face.

“Le’s go!” He hadn’t realized how thick Lestrade’s accent would get when he was drunk. The man threw open the door and, clutching his beaker in his hand, headed right for the bar. “Fill this!”

“How far?”

“To the top!”

“Noooo,” he whined, following and latching onto the detective’s back like a limpet. “Four hu-hundred and…and…forty…five? Milli…Milliliters!”

“I said top! My stag night!”

He wasn’t sure if it was because his voice carried or if he was yelling, but Lestrade’s announcement lifted heads and suddenly the whole bar was interested. “Stag night, boys!” the bartender yelled with a grin. “Let’s drink up!”

Sherlock frowned. He had a bad feeling about this…

-0-

Both John and Mycroft were more than a bit tipsy at two in the morning, but not quite plastered when they settled in the car. John struggled to remain up, but ended tilting over and allowing himself to rest against Mycroft’s chest. Surprisingly the statesman didn’t push him away and instead rested an arm around his brother-in-law, closing his eyes. “Sherlock is a very lucky man.”

“So is Greg.”

There was a drunken grin sent his way. “Jealous?”

“What?”

“Seen you look at his rear.”

John laughed so hard he ended up falling more and landing with his head in Mycroft’s lap. “Seen you look at mine!”

“S’good rear.”

They both laughed helplessly and the chauffer had to help them out of the car when they arrived at Mycroft’s house. By then, John was exhausted and too drunk and they collapsed together on the nearest bed.

-0-

“Going to have a bruiiise,” Sherlock whined as all but dropped Lestrade onto the floor of 221B. “Jooooooohn!”

“Your fault,” Lestrade groaned, dragging himself onto the sofa. “Didn’t make it to bar…bar…what number were we at?”

“Think…twenty-seven?” Sherlock flopped into his partner’s chair, long legs thrown out before him.

“’Course you got us into a bar fight.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you got a bar fight.”

Sherlock snorted and then began to laugh. How did it always happen that whenever he did a stag night, it always ended in a bar fight? At least it was a much better bar fight than last time because they’d been fighting the entire bar and Lestrade had been chipping in too.

“Where’s John?”

“Dunno. Gonna sleep now.”

There was a rumble of agreement from Lestrade.

-0-

Sherlock would later deny that he was happy for Mycroft at his wedding, or that it was honestly the happiest he’d ever seen his brother in his life. The wedding had less than thirty people and when Mycroft had seen what Sherlock had done, tastefully decorating the place in a simple but elegant style of white and gold, and a bit of red, he had seemed genuinely pleased.

The only part that he remained dreading was the best man speech. He had put it off to the last minute, thrown himself into cases and planning, to avoid thinking about it. It wasn’t until the day before the wedding itself that John forced him into a seat and made him write _something_.

It seemed as if everyone had forgotten about it, but of course it was all Donovan’s fault. She grinned from a nearby table and said, “Isn’t it about time for the best man speech?”

He met his husband’s eyes from around the two grooms, and John just smiled reassuringly. Lestrade smiled. “Yeah, bout time. You did write something, didn’t you, Sherlock?”

Mycroft wasn’t looking at him and Sherlock frowned as he realized his brother assumed that he didn’t, or if he did, it wouldn’t be good. Well, damn him! He stood up, pulling out a few note cards, and tried to ignore everyone’s eyes on him. His mother’s seemed to be burning a hole in his head and he really, really hoped… Well, it was the first time that he had ever felt the feeling of hoping he didn’t do something wrong.

“I suppose it’s required of me, but I’m not sure what to say. What _do_ you say about Mycroft besides he’s a pretentious, posh git who has a omniscient fetish about running the lives of others, breaking all my toys, and otherwise annoying me? He’s been meddlesome ever since I was born, and he always grew strangely upset when I would tell Mummy who he was shagging when we were younger. It was always terribly easy to tell.”

He glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye, but his face was studiously blank. Sherlock felt an urge to shatter that, to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible as he had at his own wedding. He was not used to feeling happy, fuzzy, or warm when his brother spoke and to know, to hear for the first time, that he was a source of _pride_ for Mycroft had left him wanting to do things that he would never, ever want to do before, like… _hug_ him. Lestrade was looking at him warily and no one seemed particularly happy, except for John and his parents.

His fingers clenched on his cards before slowly putting them on the table and making sure they were perfectly aligned. He was not looking forward to saying the rest of this; it was going to make things as awkward between them for awhile as it had Sherlock had gotten married. They’d avoided each other for a good month after that because if there was one thing the Holmes’ brothers didn’t do was publically or verbally acknowledge their feelings for each other…even when they were alone.

“Despite this, Mycroft has been with me my whole life. I can take risks, do the things I need to do, because I know that there’s a hand there to help me if I need it. Whether I _want_ it or not is another matter.” There were a few chuckles at that. “Having been around him my whole life, as frustrating and hair-pullingly annoying as he is, it has given me an unique look into my brother’s life. I have seen the people he spent the night with, those he worked with, and I’m probably the only one that has the best insight into what goes in that exceedingly too large head of his.”

John was openly grinning at him now, the same way that he had when he’d read the speech over Sherlock’s shoulders. “So believe me when I say that I saw the instant effect that Greg Lestrade had in his life. I’ve heard my entire life from those around me, even from Mycroft himself in one manner or another, that he’s wanted me to be happy. I never said the words, but I felt the same for him. He had narrowed his world to me and me alone. I wanted him happy in a way that I knew I could never make him.”

He saw those in Lestrade’s team exchange glances, but Sherlock didn’t say it with conceit. It was the truth and Lestrade knew it. He turned to the two grooms, Mycroft watching him with dark, shuttered eyes that were impossible to read and pride in Greg’s. “I was safe. He knew very well that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all around obnoxious asshole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet and knew what to expect of me. He suffered with me through my darkest times and took whatever I said to him no matter how hurtful.  
“I am not a man who has a talent for making anyone happy, much less him, and anyone who knows me for the past seven years knows why. So when Greg Lestrade entered my brother’s life, I could see the difference. At first he was resistant, which if you know my brother is hardly surprising as there is no one more stubborn alive. He would have to be to persistently remain at my side. Yet even stubbornness could not remain in the face of tenaciousness and I had the unique pleasure of watching my brother fall. Happiness was thrust on him, and I am pleased that he was smart enough to take it.” A faint quirk of his lips happened without his control.

“So understand this, Mycroft: I’m happy that you took a risk and that it has brought you to this day. If there is anyone that deserves it, you do.”

He picked up his glass, but stopped when Mycroft’s voice interrupted. That wasn’t how it was supposed to work. The man shifted in his seat as he said, “As usual, your deductions are impressive, but you always get one thing wrong.”

“What did I miss then?”

Mycroft’s eyes met his. “You do make me happy, little brother.”

Now why did he have to go and do that? It was already going to be awkward enough after this between them, did he have to make it worse? He frowned, ignoring the pleasant buzz that went through him. “You do realize that this is supposed to be about you and you’re not supposed to talk, right? I realize how _difficult_ that is for you, but could you put in a bit of effort please to not spoiling my speech?”

There was a ripple of laughter and Sherlock sat down in a huff. He felt Mycroft’s hand reach out and squeeze his knee briefly before letting go as John stood up. In some ways, he resented both best man speeches because all it was doing was forcing them to speak about what they’d already known and Sherlock hadn’t thought necessary to actually say…but seeing how happy Mycroft seemed to be, maybe, just maybe, it was worth it.

“So, this probably isn’t going to be the tear-jerker that Sherlock’s just was.” John’s hand clapped on Lestrade’s shoulder. “I can’t think of a better man that Mycroft picked. Greg has been one of the truest friends I’ve ever had and nothing makes me happier to see him find someone as special as Mycroft. Maybe Greg and I are insane,” Here Lestrade’s team laughed and Donovan even nodded twice to that, “but I guess we’re the two people in the world that find that being with the Holmes’ brothers make us happy. So here’s to happiness, and to future meet-ups in the pubs to drink when inevitably our Holmes’ piss us off!”

“Cheers, mate!” Greg said with a huge grin and the two clinked their wine glasses together.

As the reception moved to dancing and Sherlock played the violin piece he’d secretly created for his brother and friend, he kept his eyes on the two leads. Mycroft at least seemed to know it had been composed for them, but he said nothing. At least he wasn’t going to drag the knowledge out and make it three times as more awkward as it was already. Sherlock did not _like_ having his feelings for his brother spoken of and knew the feeling was mutual. There had always been an understanding, if a silent one, between them that they knew the truth no matter what they said, and he damned weddings that forced them to make it so public.

“So was it worth it?”

He blinked as John came up to him as he stepped off the stage. “What?”

“Planning the wedding, being here at Mycroft’s wedding.”

His eyes traveled to his brother that was holding Greg close, dancing to a waltz. Really, smiling like that just didn’t suit Mycroft’s face at all. He really hoped _he_ hadn’t looked so stupidly saccharine at his own wedding. He watched as Mycroft rested his forehead against his new husband’s and closed his eyes, and it seemed as if the tension had just drained out of him, leaving him relaxed, floating in a pool of contentment.

It was the way he felt around John.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and one arm automatically wrapped around his partner’s shoulders. “…Yes.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Never.”

John laughed.

-End-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I know what people will ask, here’s a little follow up the morning after with Mycroft and John after stag night ;)
> 
> _John felt movement next to him from a larger body and with his head pounding, he rolled over toward the mass, burying his face in the nearby chest. An arm wrapped around his shoulders and head, trapping him close and cutting out the light as the body moved to curl around him protectively. He sighed, breathing in deeply, only for some synapses to fire in his throbbing brain. This **was not** Sherlock._
> 
> _It seemed as if the other occupant realized that at the same moment. “You are not Gregory.”_
> 
> _“…You’re not Sherlock.”_
> 
> _There was a heavy gulp above him. “I’m missing my shirt.”_
> 
> _“So am I.”_
> 
> _His eyes met Mycroft’s and as one they frantically yanked up the sheets. Their pants were still very firmly on. At some point they’d kicked off their shoes, because they were only in their socks. A sense of relief so strong it weakened his limbs flooded him and he fell on his back. “Oh thank god, we didn’t get drunk and sleep together. Not that you’re not, you know…”_
> 
> _“I understand completely what you’re saying,” Mycroft muttered, also rolling onto his back and throwing his arm over his eyes. “Believe me, I am thanking every deity known to man for that. Not only would Sherlock kill me, you are…”_
> 
> _“Not your type.”_
> 
> _“Absolutely not.”_
> 
> _“For once I’m going to be glad that Sherlock can deduce everything about who I’ve slept with before because he’ll at least know we didn’t sleep together.” There was a moment of silence and he turned his head suspiciously. “He will know, won’t he?”_
> 
> _“…I believe that tradition should be overruled about my seeing Gregory so that we might **explain** to them the situation.”_
> 
> _“…You’re not serious.” John sat up slowly. “Please tell me you’re joking. Sherlock would tell, would be able to see…”_
> 
> _“And of course Sherlock has never once gotten upset or overreacted about you because of a misunderstanding.”_
> 
> _The dry words made John’s stomach plummet to his feet. “Get dressed. Now. Before he blows up the apartment or starts contemplating your murder.”_
> 
> _“I heartily agree.” Despite their hangovers, they were both bolting out of bed._
> 
> _“Perfect. Now…where’s my shirt?”_
> 
> Enjoyed? Hope this is what everyone wanted and it lives up to expectations.

**Author's Note:**

> Because seriously, who else would plan Sherlock’s wedding? I’ve never been married and wasn’t around for my sister’s planning of it, but I did some googling to see what has to be done. Sorry if it’s not right.


End file.
